


Forgotten Chapters

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Comfort/Angst, Conditioning, Coping, Dreams and Nightmares, Dysfunctional Relationships, Getting to Know Each Other, Hypnotism, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Loyalty, Moral Ambiguity, Multiple Selves, Open Ending, Panic Attacks, Partial Mind Control, Plans For The Future, Power Play, Prophetic Visions, Protectiveness, Queerplatonic Dark/Host - Freeform, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sensation Play, Storytelling, Unresolved Tension, Vulnerability, post-hypnotic suggestion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: When the Host struggles to control his visions, a reliable companion is there. Perhaps he shouldn't trust him as much as he does.





	Forgotten Chapters

For the most part, the Host’s sleep was quiet, though occasionally restless. There were nights that his bandages got twisted up in his hair or he tossed and turned if his blankets weren’t enough to combat the unabating chill in his room, but he had come to accept that it was as much rest as he would get and he ought to be grateful for it.

Those were the good nights.

On other nights, his Sight innocently filtered into his subconscious; his dreams didn’t give him any respite from the visions of the day. The dreams were loud and sharp, too fast to decipher but too long to ignore, showing him things that he didn’t know and didn’t want to understand. All he wanted was relief, all he wanted was for his head to stop hurting—eye sockets, stop bleeding—nails, stop tearing—throat, stop screaming—

 _Screaming_ —

The breath was stolen from his lungs in one sudden rush, taking all of the force out of his cries, and he would have panicked because of it, but the bubble of pressure around him was heavy and cool, smothering his first reactions. The visions hit a wall and dispersed like fine dust, leaving him in dry, unmoving darkness.

A choked, broken noise, the last of his air, escaped then and he curled his torn hands into his bedsheets as a trembling wave of nausea swept over him. He couldn’t bring himself to care about _dignity_ when he felt the bed creak, but the thought occurred to him that this particular visitor was least likely to be unnerved by the Host’s shattered composure.

“Should I summon the doctor?” Dark asked. His voice was low, but it reverberated against the Host’s ears, the only sound that wasn’t muffled by his racing heart and scattered breaths.

“It will pass,” the Host countered through gritted teeth, bloody tears dripping from his chin and down his neck as he leaned his head against the back wall. He couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away; he was far too preoccupied with the overwhelming fight-or-flight responses surging through his body.

He didn’t want to see the doctor, not like this. Over the years, Iplier and the others had gotten so used to the solemn, introverted, soft-spoken Host who could end arguments simply by predicting what their folly would lead to. Even the brief glimpses they got of the cracked, agonized character underneath were ignored as soon as they were out of sight; it was as if none of them were willing to acknowledge that Host even existed.

Dark was different. At the core, he was the harshest of the Personas; it was obvious, despite his attempts to hide it behind a suave, distant demeanor, and because of it he had developed a fascination with the ugliest parts of the Host’s story as soon as they were introduced. The Host, for his part, felt… _safe_ with him. He could be himself, with _everything_ that entailed. His body reacted to that notion, seizing up with tremors more pronounced than before. Dark noticed that immediately.

“Would you like me to stay?”

The Host couldn’t help the faint flicker of surprise at the offer, but it was squashed by the greater spark of gratitude. He moved his hands from the sheets to his chest, curling into himself, tendrils of Dark’s smoke trailing through his shaking fingers as they fisted into his nightshirt.

“Yes,” he breathed. “The Host would…like to request that Darkiplier…speak to him. About anything. A separate voice…assists the Host at times.”

There was a rigid, wary pause, after which he thought he would need to explain further, but Dark cut him off with a hand on his forearm. The Host wasn’t sure what the gesture was meant to be; Dark’s grip was cruelly tight, but it provided something of an anchor. The hand never wavered as its owner cleared his throat and spoke to him.

“Breathe,” he ordered lowly. “Let your throat relax. Lower your shoulders back and apart. Open your chest. Feel the air as it fills you.”

The haze tasted faintly sweet as it hit the back of the Host’s throat, spiraling down to settle into his lungs. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it did burn and, for reasons beyond his knowledge, it made him a little lightheaded. He swallowed hard, pressing his lips tightly together as he forced himself to inhale again.

“Breathe…” The word echoed several times over, each echo softer than the last, and the Host obeyed, relaxing as much as his body allowed in its current state. It was only a fraction of what he needed.

“The Host finds it—difficult—” he admitted haltingly, tilting his face in his companion’s direction, searching for something. Dark’s hand on his forearm tightened further, hard enough to bruise, contrasting the silk woven into his voice as he continued.

“There is _nothing_ to be afraid of. Here, I am always composed and safe. So are you. Nothing can breach this place.”

Echoes.  _Composed…Safe…_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Host realized that the words themselves were enough to be afraid of, but they were keeping him grounded. There was nothing else to latch onto but those words. Words had always been his weakness and his strength and in Dark’s realm, he controlled them. 

He said that the two of them were singular, alone, unlike anyone else.

He spoke of their control, of their souls, their unseen potential.

He assured him that they were important, far more important than the others could ever hope to be.

He hissed about their creator’s destruction and then murmured their own vivid praises.

The Host, calming ever so slowly, couldn’t help but listen. It was something of a _story_ and it was…entrancing. With Dark’s miasma swirling around him, unexpectedly gentle, the Host Saw a different vision of the future, one with lesser light and greater darkness—dimmer, grimmer, but somehow softer.

It was the last Sight to fill his mind when he drifted off and by the time he woke again, it was gone, a forgotten chapter. Dark forgave him for that. He waited patiently. He would tell it to him again. He would press it upon him again and again and again. One day, given time, the Host would have no choice but to _write_ it.

**Author's Note:**

> This story might not make much sense given that it's reeeeally early in the morning that I'm writing it, but I hope it does. I like to think these two have an intriguing give and take relationship.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my little headcanon! Leave a kudos or a comment down below if you want to tell me what you thought; I'd love to hear from you!


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